


Five Times Hawkeye Missed And One Time He Wasn’t

by Loolph



Series: The Catch [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, BAMF Phil Coulson, Competence Kink, First Kiss, First Meetings, Inspired by..., M/M, No Dialogue, POV Clint Barton, Recruitment, SHIELD, Something A Friend Had Said, Suit Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-16 22:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loolph/pseuds/Loolph
Summary: What if SHIELD's pursuit of The World's Greatest Marksman was less of approach and catch or talk and convince variety? What if recruitment of Hawkeye was conducted by Agent Phil Coulson - a strong and silent type and was more of showing up in random times and places, without word of explanation kind? Would curiosity finally catch a bird of prey? Or would it kill a cat in black?





	1. New York

The first time Clint thought he had a tail was the Russian Mobster hit.

It was a rainy day in New York. Coney Island was grey and gloomy, streets of Little Russia somewhat deserted as for a Sunday morning.

Clint had just spent 33 hours straight, laying motionless on the rooftop of two story building with his eye glued to the cross hair of his rifle’s scope. He was eying the entrance to the underground casino slash underaged whorehouse, where his target had entered on Friday night. At least, that was what his contact had sworn his life upon. As, at that moment he was giving the information to Clint, he had been dangling over a balcony of a skyscraper, the sniper was inclined to believe him. But Clint was loosing his patience. And a feeling in his fingers and toes due to chilly weather. Not good.

Clint needed to prove himself on this job. His employer seemed to be legit. Well, as legit, as a person who gives assassination orders can be. But, still. Clint had a good feeling about this cooperation. He hoped it would be a beginning of beautiful friendship. What, with easy money and lots of bad guys dead. And he liked both.

The doors to the casino opened suddenly, cutting through Clint’s train of thought. The clock just jumped from hours of empty waiting to seconds of countdown. This was it. There where a couple of bulky, bald men in bad suits standing in a doorway. The target’s detail. Clint focused even more on the image through his scope. He let his other senses loose like dogs from their leashes after seeing a squirrel, so they didn’t bother him at the crucial moment. Fifteen seconds.

Even though his detail didn’t look as much, they had their boss in a tight circle. Clint didn’t have a shot. While one of the goons was opening a umbrella for the mobster, Clint felt all of the raindrops around him - on his eyelashes, on his skin, his clothes, the rooftop around him, on the asphalt before him, a sidewalk next to the target and on the umbrella of a random man in a suit approaching. Ten seconds.

The town car pulled up in front of the casino door, making it even narrower for Clint. The group dynamics changed, but they moved even tighter around the main man. Clint was loosing his non existent opening fast. He knew that the car windows were bullet proof. He let go even more. He heard the pitter patter of rain on the car’s roof, it’s engine running on neutral, the scratch of a match while the boss was lighting up his cigar, the light footsteps of a suited man, hunching under black umbrella so much, that surely he couldn’t see where he was going. Five seconds.

The mobster drew his first hit of cigar smoke and was contentedly puffing perfect rings in the air. Clint could smell the bad stench of cheap tobacco, even cheaper cologne, the engine’s exhaust, the wet dust on the asphalt and something surprisingly fresh and exotic like sandalwood. Four.

The Russian must’ve sense this too, because he looked around, while stretching his neck and shoulders and saw the random man cowered behind an umbrella still approaching. He couldn’t look like much to a mafia boss or his detail - just another rumpled suit, coming home from the long night, hangovered and tired. Three.

The mobster gave a reassuring smile to his guards and stepped aside to let the man through, so he didn't collide with him. The opening Clint suddenly had was simple, perfect, almost like on the shooting range. Two.

Just like ducks in a row in the circus. Like a rehearsed play closing with standing ovation. Like a complicated choreography coming to this perfect pirouette. Like a night of flirting with random stranger finishing with earth shuttering orgasm. One.

Without one conscious thought throughout the whole process, Clint pulled the trigger, registered the bullet going through the mobster’s forehead, jumped from his perch, disassembled his rifle and had fled the rooftop via preplanned escape route within seconds.

And then, just when his legs had hit the back alley pavement and his mind had finally caught up with his eyes, Clint froze.

The random man in the suit under black umbrella did not flinch at the sound of the shot. Did not react at the movement of the mobster’s body falling to the ground next to him. Did not stopped to help or proposed to call the police. He just continued walking.

Huh.

Clint blinked and made himself scarce. The random man wasn’t random.


	2. Rome

The second time Clint realized he had a tail was the Italian job.

He was just coming down from a paranoid state of looking around his shoulder for a random man in a black suit. Whom time, after time he did not found. So Clint finally let go of his absurd overthinking and just laughed at himself. Sometimes things were random. Sometimes people didn’t react to shots fired. Sometimes men in black suits with umbrellas weren’t bother with bullets passing them by by centimeters. Right? Right. As if, dammit.

This time the target was a beautiful woman in a beautiful country. Right curves at the right places. Both to be seen in monuments and people. His mark had hourglass figure, long legs, and even longer hair - black like her conscience. Clint didn’t took hits on women, but he made exceptions for human traffickers. And signora Maddalena Ricoletta was the capo di tutti capi of the Mediterranean slave trade canal.

He soon observed, that she liked to enjoy her 10 o’clock espresso in a small cafe, on the side street in the heart of Municipio Roma II. She always had at least 4 bodyguards - slender, handsome men in perfectly tailored suits. It meant that for an hour or so, she had the whole place for herself. She liked to conduct her business like that, in the open, under the sun. It made Clint’s skin crawl.

The old buildings surrounding the narrow street were too tall for the sniper shot. The angles were all wrong. It’ll have to be close range. Preferably, with fast escape route, since the bodyguards were heavily armed. The best tailoring in Italy could not hide a submachine guns stuffed under their jackets. Fucking Berettas M12, Clint shuddered.

The street was loosely used, but it was center of Rome, still. That resulted in tons of foot traffic, trucks delivering small items and blocking the whole flow of people and scooters buzzing angrily by. All this convinced Clint to plan a drive by with a silenced gun. And on a little Vespa, nonetheless. But, when you’re in Rome…

Clint hopped on his scooter, strategically parked along the street earlier. He fumbled with his helmet, which gave him an excuse to scan the surroundings. The stream of passersby seemed never-ending and normal for this rush hour. Since it was still relative morning, Clint was fairly sure that non of the bigger trucks will suddenly appear from nowhere and block his get away trail. Fifteen seconds.

A man in a navy blue suit and old school sun glasses had sat in the last free chair next to the street, becoming a perfect human shield for the mark in the process. But no biggie. Clint would work around him, no problem. He started the engine and subtly fetched his gun from shoulder’s satchel, putting it across his lap. This was going to be done from the hip, covert. Not that it would be any kind of issue for Hawkeye, of all people. Ten seconds.

Clint stepped on it and the scooter made a screeching sound, making him smile a little. He weaved carelessly through pedestrians clattering the street, just like any other rider here would do, never loosing a sight of his target. A navy blue suit was just presented with a cappuccino he must’ve ordered. In effect, the returning waiter blocked line of sight of two bodyguards. Good. Five seconds.

The suit seemed to make camp by his table. He retrieved a newspaper from under his arm and had spread it in front of his face. That actively shut off the remaining goons from seeing anything important outside of the cafe front in time, including approaching Clint. Even better. Four.

The man hunched a little, picking up his cup. A very elegant gesture, done completely subconsciously, Clint observed. It made him aim his gun slightly different, giving it a last second adjustments. Three.

And then the coffee cup froze mid air, half way to his lips, as if the man in a suit found a particularly interesting passage in his newspaper, which had dropped slightly in his other hand. It gave Clint a perfect opening, cross hair true. Two.

Time seemed to slow for an instance - everything truly aligned. Clint could shoot now with his eyes closed and still hit his mark. So he focused on the man in the navy blue suit, as to double check not to ruin his first sip of a perfect coffee. And was met with a steel blue gaze over the rim of the sun glasses. One.

Clint marksman’s instincts took over. Three shots barely rung above buzz of passing by Vespa. Three hits on signora Maddalena Ricoletta’s temple, neck and heart blossomed like red roses, turning her white dress crimson. All in an instant. Clint fled the scene, hoping he looked as inconspicuous as he truly did not feel. He felt exposed. As if those serious blue eyes could zero in on him and stop him on the spot.

Who has a spacial awareness and reflex to catch Clint’s eyes like that? Outside of his training and others like him? And just sits there with bullets flying? And drinks coffee like nothing ever happened? And wears sun glasses like that and navy blue suit?

A suit. Oh. Oh…

Clint’s mind was racing. He was shaken. He was so hooked on this man.


	3. Bangkok

The third time Clint looked for his a tail was one night in Bangkok.

The sun just barely set, making everything softer, including the tacky front of little, family owned tailor’s shop. The sky above him had this particular shade of steel blue and there was a distinctive scent of sandalwood in the air. Yes, he developed a very one track mind recently. Which had suit him just fine. Suit him. Heh.

Apparently, if you were a young, bulky man, Papu Kulafu Shop was a perfect place to get a decent suit in under 24 hours. Since his new fascination in the latter and being the former, Clint was bought and sold on the idea of bespoke suit for a reasonable price. If you didn’t mind a little groping by a bolding, slightly pinguid Filipino man. Clint didn’t, as all he needed was a second alone with said man - the target.

As it happened by carefully planed accident, this out of a beaten path establishment was not only very good at sewing clothes lighting fast. It also was a headquarter of a drug cartel, housing and employing the whole kingpin’s family in the process. Mr Kulafu Dimasalang was a proud head of both businesses. He felt truly untouchable, just as his name suggested.

To go after Mr Dimasalang guns blazing, in his little fabric incrusted fortress was to go against bunch of impeccably suited young men. They came in and out at all hours of the day with whole arsenal carried carelessly on display of young, male prowess. Being an equal opportunity employer, at night, Papu Kulafu was surrounded by his own blood and adopted daughters, working hard on their sewing machines. Those innocently looking girls could fillet a grown man within 30 seconds using shears, without batting an eye. And Clint liked his insides just where they were, thank you.

But it was evening, so the shifts were changing. Young men went away for good and the girls didn’t arrive just yet. The shop was almost deserted, what with the owner and only one helper, as Clint saw entering. Rest of the crew was currently at the back, splitting duties for tonight to make their Papu Kulafu proud. Clint smiled a little shyly at the mark, and hook, line and sinker, was led to a changing room by a man himself, with an assistant on his heels.

The case of entourage meant close and personal with his target. And made his get away tricky, so no noise was a requirement. Solution was simple - a knife. The cleaner the better, because blood on clothes would be an issue, a dead give away. Clint froze while being posed for taking measurements on the podium. Fifteen seconds.

Clint didn’t shy away from getting his hands dirty. Whatever got the job done and stop this bad batch of family recipe cyanide laced cocaine from hitting the streets. He heard a doorbell and the helper left them to attend to the customer. Clint heard a man’s voice with perfect Tagalog accent. Ten seconds.

Which was strange, because observing just his profile through partially opened changing room curtains Clint could see, that the man in a suit wasn’t of Filipino descent. The girl was giving him a calculating look, listening. When he finished, she dove in under the counter to retrieve a custom order the man clearly came here to pick up and a pair of familiar blue eyes assessed Clint across the room. Oh, boy… Five seconds.

The helper presented the clothes to the man with shy smiling eyes, hidden under her bangs and was met with equally shy, but pleased smirk. It was a suit. Truly, terrifyingly hideous silk suit. All shinny and purple, with a stand up collar and braid buttons. It looked like a caricature of asian suit, dreamed up by a drunk American tourist. It even had a stitched up dragon on the back of the jacket, come on. Four.

This was so far fetched. As far as Clint knew, drunk American tourists did not praised their suit makers in long, detail Tagalog tirades with adept pronunciation. But the stereotype wardrobe order was working in Clint’s favor. The girl was laughing at the customer and not paying attention to anything else, engulfed in the conversation and flirting. Three.

Clint focused on his mark, now done with taking his pants leg length and standing in front to measure chest width. Perfect. As he encircled his hands around Clint, standing way too close and even accidentally tripping to lean onto him, Clint had put his hands down, as to help with getting the balance back. His left hand went distractedly on Mr Dimasalang shoulders, as if to return the sudden embrace, while his right retrieved the blade hidden under his belt on his back. Two.

The conversation next to the counter has hit a particularly high volume, with girl shouting something in mocked anger and the man in the suit laughing. He had surprisingly pleasant laughter, all unabashedly carefree for someone who was about to witness Clint’s handiwork. Well, it wasn’t a first time. Clint moved his left hand’s grip to the mark’s neck and let his right swing up at an expert angle and force. One.

The knife in Clint’s hand went to the back of marks head, severing the spinal cord at the atlas C1 vertebrae in one go, lights out instantly. Swift, efficient, quiet kill. He posed the body, as if resting in quiet shame and stormed across the store’s floor as if in rage, right to the door. It wasn’t unusual reaction in the first time clients of Papu Kulafu, so nobody bothered to stop Clint. He was followed by steady stream of Tagalog words in quiet, yet engaging male voice, even after he turned the corner.

This was unbelievable. How many tricks did this guy have? Change his disadvantages into his best features, being unmemorable in plain sight, playing with danger right at the edge and feeling at home with it.

The mysteries that suit held.

Clint was moving from being just hooked on to being seriously impressed fast.


	4. Port Harcourt

The forth time Clint got in touch with his tail was in Port Harcourt and he wasn’t surprised anymore.

At that moment, he might’ve been dehydrated and hallucinating, what with the heat stroke and blood loss. Since the man was just standing in the doorway of his makeshift cell, looking Clint over with a Nigerian officer by his side, Clint wasn’t inclined to believe his blackened eyes, ok. But there he was, with a stethoscope running around his collar. He was wearing a khaki bush suit this time. How very suiting. The man’s disdain was clear on his face, though. His disappointment was showing in the lines of his body and detachment to Clint’s state in his movements. Yeah, maybe this wasn’t Clint's brightest idea, true. But, how do you approach a Nigerian leader in the middle of nowhere, in the midsts of a civil war?

Clint’s target, Colonel Sangodele Yusuf Onwuatuegwu was living undisturbed in a very expectedly run camp, in the outskirts of Port Harcourt. He was a stone cold killer and a paranoid tyrant with a nickname General Thursday, but was wholeheartedly beloved and blindly obeyed by his army. Which wasn’t so hard to understand, when Clint found out that the oldest and most experienced soldier in Onwuatuegwu’s detachment just turned 16. The bastard was creating child soldiers with a little of organ harvesting on a site. Wonderful.

The problem was, that all the intel in the world could not make Clint any more successful in approaching General Thursday. His white skin and resting bitch face screamed mercenary to even an untrained eye. Also, there were no tall buildings to perch from around the campsite. There were no buildings period. And even the best camouflage on the ground didn’t help with getting near the shooting range in a war torn country. Clint was lucky to secure trustworthy extraction, but that window was closing fast, now. His contacts were getting restless, scared even, and Clint was made to improvise quickly. So, being inspired so wonderfully as of late, he decided to work around the Colonel’s entourage just like in the Philippines, with a little twist.

He posed as a weapon’s trader, interested in arming General Thursday’s little army, hoping the target would come to him. Instead, he was approached by Onwuatuegwu’s boys in broad day light, guns drown and driven to the heart of the camp to meet the man. Still, all he needed was a moment alone with the mark, no problem. What Clint couldn’t accounted for in his slapdash plan, was Onwuatuegwu’s outright and utter madness. And his love of man’s watches. Clint just happen to wear the wrong Patek knock off at a wrong time. Once the General’s eyes landed on his wrist, all talks about weaponry business went out of the window. Once Clint politely declined the proposition to parting with the watch - so did any resemblance of business, politeness or sanity.

That is how Clint found himself in dugout prison, stripped of all his weapons and most of his clothes, tied and gagged, face swollen from backhanded compliments given freely by General Thursday and his boys. He was also hitting the no water, no sleep, no worries marker pretty soon, when was blessed with a sight of his suited tail, smelling freshly of exotic spices and talking calmly to the Colonel Onwuatuegwu in perfect Yoruba. Because, of course he was.

Clint drew in a surprised breath, when the suit had dropped a medic bag at his feet, put on rubber gloves and unceremoniously begin to run his hands over Clint’s abused body. It wasn’t nice or helping kind of touch, it felt as if being inspected like some sort of the merchandise, like being assessed for value. But, still. His clever fingers didn’t shy away and had found all the sore spots without missing much. Yes, nothing important was broken, nothing permanent done. Yet. A steady stream of Yoruba comments were flying Colonel Sangodele’s way, as if Clint’s current state was an inconvenience and there was a bargain in the making. General winced in sort of scolded indignation and turned his back to the suit to get the glass of water from near by table, placed there as a taunt. At that exact moment, Clint felt his restrains being precisely cut through with a swift movement of a hidden blade and his hands were suddenly free. The blue, laser focus gaze found Clint’s eyes and froze him on the spot. Ok, then. Fifteen seconds.

Clint didn’t move a muscle, as Onwuatuegwu returned and offered the water to the suit. Clint also calmly let his gag be dragged away from his mount and the glass be put next to his lips. He tried to drink all of it at once, when he felt a small prick down his thigh, hidden away from Colonel’s sight by crouching figure. The injection had stung like hell and Clint masked his consternation with a show of choking and spectacularly spitting some blood tinged water out in the direction of General Thursday. Which made the man shout in disgust and step aside, but ultimately brought him closer to Clint. Ten seconds.

Whatever the suit had shot him with, was taking its effect and fast. Clint felt more alive with every passing second. All of his injuries just sort of melted away in the background, his exertion and thirst forgotten, his senses sharpening. Five seconds.

He breathed in slowly, more alert on his surroundings and focused at the task of uncoiling some rope still tied to his wrists. It would be enough length for a simple garrote. General Thursday wasn’t a small man, but what was running through Clint’s veins at the moment was making him feel pretty fucking invincible. Four.

The suit saw the change in Clint’s demeanor but didn’t gave it away. He even led the officer’s attention away by packing his tools, standing up and walking to the door, still clearly negotiating something with Onwuatuegwu. The target followed the suit with his gaze instinctively, gesturing franticly and yelling his demands which exposed his back to Clint. How convenient. Three.

Clint quietly brought his feet under him and crouched on the ground behind the man like a tightly coiled spring, reading his hands in front. His unused muscles and abused skin screamed in agony of being stretched too tightly and not enough, but Clint was floating above all that in drugs induced bliss. The coming down from this will gonna be brutal. The suit had cut the discussion short with a final gesture and left the cell. Two.

He was still heard on the outside, talking, presumably with the guards. General Thursday didn’t move, gazing at the entrance like it offended him personally. Good. So, now, all Clint had to do, was jump the target from behind, thread his rope joined hands over his head, place the choke hold on his neck, ideally over his trichia precisely and kick his feet from under him to make gravity do its work and help Clint strangle his mark to death. One.

And that was what Clint has done.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t precise and business as usual. But it was fairly effective under circumstances and almost soundless, especially since the noises were similar to the beatings given to Clint before. The lookout outside the prison doors was used to those and wasn’t even bothered. Karma was a bitch, Clint thought hazily, when General Thursday stopped making any sounds for good.

Taking a short breather, Clint heard a different kind of noise, over his doped, hammering heart. It was a howling from hell, like the one, when front line breaks over unsuspecting and under schooled troops, when an enemy decides to have their camp for breakfast, lunch and dinner, thank you very much. The ruckus was truly unholy and panic inducing. All stations were abandoned, which made Clint’s escape that much easier. He knew he only had one man to thank for all that.

Clint was so high on the shot, the successful hit and meeting the suit, that he smiled the entire time on his way to the extraction point and even after being picked up. It was creeping his contacts out, but Clint didn’t care.

What he did care for, was that the next time he and the suit would cross paths, non of them wouldn’t be half dead for the touching. Clint had solemnly promised himself that.

He liked the touching.

He smiled at his thoughts again.


	5. Washington D. C.

The fifth time Clint had found his tail in Washington D. C., he got his share. Just a little taste.

The hit required a very specific set of skills. A puzzle that perplexed Clint and helped to distance himself from the mark, which was a first. Because, this time the mark wasn’t bad. It was a woman, justice Claire O’Reilly, a tough judge, a good mother, a loving wife of US Senator Virginia O’Reilly and recent victim of a hit and run, with broken left arm. So, practically a saint, in Clint’s book. It was a terrible thing to discover a conscience so late in this game.

Nobody forced Clint to take this target, obviously, but the money was good. Like life altering good. Clint had proven himself to be an effective blunt instrument or self sacrificing tool, if the need arose. Now, he was considered the best in the business. He was proud of himself, ok. And the hit came with very explicit demands - were, when and using what.

The location was problematic. It was supposed to be done not only in the middle of US capital city, but also on a foreign soil of nation’s good ally - French embassy in Washington D. C.. So, if things went to shit, there would be hell to pay and nowhere to turn to. Also, the date was set in stone - the Christmas Eve fundraiser gala for the VA and LGBTQ community. Important night for all the high rollers and big wigs. So, he needed to tread lightly greasing elbows like he belong there. No more brazen, illiterate carney. Hello, Mr Smooth Pronunciation and impeccable sartorial choices. It’s a good thing he had someone to look up to on that front lately.

Clint wasn’t even taken aback, when he entered the ballroom and saw the suit talking to the mark herself and her wife. What made him almost swallow his tongue was a white US navy mess dress uniform he was wearing. Like, damn. It wasn’t fitting quite nicely as his previous suits. It made the man move a little stiff, like a formal wear was out of his usual element, like he lived and worked in a different kind of uniform. Which meant a perfect cover for the evening, because he looked just like dozen other navy officers present. It made Clint’s bespoke black tuxedo and dark purple bow tie look almost extravagant in comparison.

But being in the shadows wasn’t in his plans for tonight. The bigger the better. Being flamboyant for one night was a neat trick. Generosity fueled by French champagne and beefcakes in navy dress whites meant disappearing among the crowd. Being just tolerant was outdated in Washington society circles, what with DADT repealed. Now, you needed to show your acceptance and giving financial support for the cause was a way to do it. The O’Reilly’s, first openly gay married power couple of capitol hill, presence was just icing on the rainbow cake.

Clint really enjoyed himself. The food was good, the drinks were free and the people smiled, gossiping and exchanging piquancies in small groups that frequently mingled. It meant a lot of hushed voices and leaning into each other ears, but in a most polite and stiff upper lip manner. Clint found it hilarious. Also, useful. Because focusing on the conversation promised loosing a sight of surroundings or held drinks. And that was, what Clint was supposed to do, spike judge Claire O’Reilly’s drink with provided liquid, no questions asked. Fifteen seconds.

He used his charms and fat checkbook to get into good graces of beautifully aging socialite goddess, who enjoyed Clint’s attention and his fine ass (her words) and then was passed on into the hands and contacts of her friends. After about nine swaps, he was chatting up the target, like his long lost family member. Ten seconds.

The woman was honest, sharp and witty, her views bright and strong in their integrity. Clint’s heart was squeezing harder with every beat, the vial getting heavier in his pocket. He decided to take a chance and asked Mrs O’Reilly to dance, when the near by quartet started a pleasant swing. Five seconds.

Claire's face lit up and she went for the invitation, exited like a young girl. She unceremoniously passed Clint her glass of water for holding, as she started to remove her silk scarf makeshift sling. Four.

She explained that it was for show anyway, that her wife insisted on it, but it got in the way all evening and she was itching to get rid of it. Now she had her chance, thanks to Clint. Three.

Clint sighed inwardly, listening intently and smiling a little, so that the mark would focus on his face, not his hands. An opportunity like this won’t happen again and Clint discreetly poured the liquid into the mark's glass, as instructed. Two.

Mrs O’Reilly straightened up her hair, smiled back at Clint, took the water from his hand and downed it in a big gulp. One.

Just like that, it was done.

That was unexpected. Also made Clint’s get away impossible. He couldn’t make a scene now. He had to play it out to the end, improvise concern and offer help over woman’s sudden fainting, when in occurs. Be engaged, but useless. Best way to be forgotten.

But nothing happened. Huh. Maybe it was something slow working?

They entered the dance floor, Clint leading carefully, like on hot coals, but Claire just followed, enjoying young man’s company and good music. She smiled to someone over Clint’s shoulder and they abruptly run almost into another dancing couple - Senator Virginia O’Reilly and the suit. Because, of course they did.

The women exchanged very knowing glances and invoked their spousal privileges, as they suggested changing partners with sweet smiles. And all of a sudden, Clint was holding a very different set of hands. He was faced with a familiar set of steel blue eyes, now, tinted with hint of challenge, amusement tilting the suit’s lips. Well, ok then. Challenge accepted.

Clint tightened the embrace, leading away from the O’Reilly’s, but was met with no resistance. On the contrary, the fluidity with which his partner was responding to Clint’s directions was breathtaking. His muscles shifting under Clint’s touch with collected strength, his movements in perfect timing with the music. It was like the man had read his mind. Oh, this had to stop or Clint would loose it here and there, in the middle of the floor, in the middle of the op. Clint decided to up the stakes and give back as good as he was clearly getting.

He steered them away from the crowd, right under a patch of green leaves hanging from the arch, next to staff exit and stopped. And raised his head. And looked pointedly at the bundle of mistletoe. And looked back at his partner. And got just as sharp look back. And a little daring smirk. Oh, how he wanted to wipe that grin of the suit’s face. And that’s what he did.

With his lips.

The kiss was chaste at first, just mouths touching, eyes closing, but Clint wasn’t done. He licked the man’s lower lip with an intent and almost moaned when his tongue was let in and slightly sucked on. Oh, the suit wasn’t playing fair, tilting his head just so, granting Clint access to his mouth for a second and then taking total control over the kiss without any hesitation. Clint nearly whimpered. He just plundered Clint’s lips, tangling their tongues together, tasting like champagne and slyness. Clint’s brain short-circuited.

But then the commotion behind them started, the O’Reilly’s name and symptoms of some illness were screamed over the guest’s heads and the reality had hit hard.

Clint untangled himself from the suit on autopilot, opened the staff door and shouted about needing help, startling the people inside, making more noise and confusion to create a veil for his hast retreat. He exited via service entrance, his black jacket making him anonymous and disappeared in a labyrinth of back alleys.

Some Christmas morning.

Was there anything the guy wasn’t good at?

That kiss. His lips were tingling with it all the way to his hideout.


	6. New York, New York

The last time Clint had considered his tail as his tail, he was sitting in his apartment in New York. Looking at a photo in a kill file.

The righteous man helping in delivering well deserved sentences the competent way he was putting in a suit was just that, a put upon, an illusion. He clearly forgot that the moment things were working out for him was usually the moment it all went to hell. Just Clint’s life, nothing new. No matter that the level of savvy in the man made Clint crush like a fourteen year old girl. Once the mystery was gone, stripped by pages after pages of dossier, so was Clint’s interest.

Coulson, Phillip J., agent of Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, quite a mouthful there. A handler for Strike Team Charlie with espionage and military training, fluent in English, Italian, Tagalog and Yoruba, age 34, 6’ 0”, 203 lbs, brown hair, blue eyes. So, real life Man in Black. Just a regular spook. Now, Clint’s target.

So, nothing interesting there, whatsoever. Right? Right.

Being an executioner of the wicked felt so right, like Clint had finally found his calling. Having a mysterious and well adjusted sidekick was kind of fun too. Having to find out that all that persona was just a result of being taught, trained and prepared with back up and team effort was a bit disappointing. But still, it was good while it lasted, so Clint decided to break this partnership in style. Since the suit, no, PHIL witnessed all his previous methods, this called for his one and true love - the bow.

It was a practical solution and a good choice, using something new, silent weapon, skill not shown before. From quite far away, from undisclosed location. It hadn’t anything to do with having some distance between them, when those steel blue eyes will loose all that sharpness and life, Clint solemnly had swear to himself, while he was climbing to his preselected perch. Fifteen seconds.

And was stopped dead in his tracks, when a single shot had rung loud in the night air out of nowhere and sharp pain had blossomed atop Clint’s thigh. He spins around, involuntary jerk of the body, taking cover and carefully double backs to check the shooter’s position. Ten seconds.

He must be clearly in shock, even though he can feel he isn’t hurt that bad. He’s been shot, but it’s more like a deep gash over the skin than muscle’s through and through. It barely even bleeds. So he cannot believe his eyes, when he sees, who shot him on his way to his secret hide out. Five seconds.

Because, there he is. On the rooftop opposite to Clint’s. Just standing there, a silhouette over the city lights, steel blue eyes boring into his. Legs in black dress shoes, shinned within inch of their life, spread over the tarp in a parade stance. Jacket of a standard black suit open for more comfort. Boring black tie flapping slightly in a breeze. One arm risen to his lips, holding a radio, the other one extended in Clint’s direction still holding a smoking gun in a firm grip. Four.

His target shot him. Senior agent Phil fucking Coulson shot him. Clint can’t phantom this. Three.

Clint hastily makes a makeshift tourniquet over his leg, using his bandana, never losing a sight of the agent opposite, thinking furiously. Coulson never moves. Doesn’t speak either. Now what? Two.

Clint needs to make a decision here and quick. The MIB has an upper hand, no doubt about it. And he could’ve use it any time. Even before the first fire, clearly it could’ve been a kill shot. Ok, let’s do this and go all in. Let’s call it and see if his curiosity will really be a death of him. One.

Clint stands, puts his bow over his back and walks over to the edge of his roof, standing like a distorting mirror image of the agent. His worn out work boots, thick cargo pants and a vest, heavy with tactical gear and weapons are all in practical black and matte finish, slightly scored but perfectly functional. He gets an assessing look back, a gun pointed away and holstered and a firm shake of a head to the direction of fire escape. He is to follow, he guesses.

When Clint’s feet hit the ground, Coulson is at the end of the alley, turning corner. Clint goes after him and sees that Phil is entering the hole in a wall pub. When he lets himself through the door, he gets a moment to look around, but nothing raises any red flags. Just a couple of worn out regular clients, leaning heavily into their glasses, few NY bankers or traders, celebrating their success over posh bourbon and one bachelorette party in full swing over by the booth.

Coulson obviously chose the furtherest table from the crowd, in the back, bracketed by mirrors on the walls and was presented with a finger of whiskey and a cup of coffee by the indifferent bartender. Clint hobbles slightly towards the agent and takes the seat opposite, even if now his back is to the room. He is sure, that he has the best reflexes in here and he can use the reflections he’s facing for targeting anyway.

Clint is met with a familiar sight of the suited man taking a first sip of coffee and suddenly it hits him, all the clever, opening puns dying on his lips, squashed away by a burst of righteous indignation. He knew how the guy looked in different clothes and what he sounded like when relaxed and laughing or agitated and arguing in different languages. He knew how he smelled from 50 paces and a breath away. He knew how he moved with subconscious grace or controlled strength. He even knew what the man tasted like, for god’s sake, but they never even exchanged a single word.

How was that possible?

What was he thinking?

Why was he just sitting there, being ignored and taking it?

Clint hands left the table top and went for his gun and a knife, flexing his stinging thigh muscle, checking. This will stop now. The hit was still possible to be completed. There was some good money in it. Like, buying an island and retiring for life good. So what, that without gun made love bites and steel blue gazes in the future? He wasn’t taking this anymore.

But then their eyes met yet again and Clint understood in an instant, his sixth sense kicking in.

He wasn’t being ignored. Far from it. He was being watched. For a long time before. And now. Very intently. In fact, by every person in the bar. Even a couple outside, on the sidewalk and standing next to a car that stopped in the middle of the street. Over the sights of their raised guns. The soon to be bride with a sawn off shotgun was a nice touch, Clint thought, counting pistols held on him, seen in the mirror and in the corner of his eye.

Not only was he being watched, he was being studied. Not judged, observed. Assessed. Weighed and measured. Thought over and through. By a man before him. By an agent of SHIELD. By Agent Coulson.

He slowly replaced his empty hands on the table, where a white binder with his full name on it appeared. He was encouraged to take a look inside by another head tilt, over the rim of the coffee cup. And wasn’t that a treat to read. He skipped his personal history. He had been there, he had done that and he burned the T-shirt afterwards, thank you. What followed was a detail analysis of his latest kills.

Someone wrote a report 20 pages long, why his Coney Island perch was “the worst possible choice for the shot, with 8,1% chance of successfully hitting the target”. Like the writer could not believe his own eyes and evidence of the kill before him.

The one about Rome’s covert Vespa drive by was even longer with outstanding portfolio of sketches and stated “4,3% of success rate” and “highly improbable, if done again in any other situation by any other shooter”. Someone was clearly looking for the method in Clint’s madness.

The Bangkok job was deemed “a doubtful outcome”, but included detail autopsy paper, which was almost like a love letter from the pathologist, impressed with the skill and precision of knife work. The analyst was being taken aback.

Note about Port Harcourt hit was almost laconic, in comparison to the recital of the psychiatrist’s complaints, addressing his “no self preservation skills” and “reckless endangerment issues”. However, it detailed alternative ways of approach, very time consuming, high cost oriented and steep in the head count. It would have been an accounting and human resources' nightmare.

And then, there was Washington D.C. file, which consisted of hospital entry charter of a patient, a woman with unusual allergic reaction, the treatment plan and after successful completion - a set of release papers. Then, there was a log of target’s movement, in connection with a tracker being remarkably well implemented. Which was followed by description of a kidnapping, order for SWAT hast retrieval due to known location, arrest of the immediate perpetrators and big wig court lawsuit for the actual undisclosed principals of the whole deal.

The last thing in the file was a photo.

Of the entire O’Reilly family.

It was taken earlier today, during a school run.

They seemed whole. And happy.

Clint looked at it, dumbfounded, with fingers following a curve of Claire O’Reilly’s smile.

Another file was placed gently next to the photo. It had another name on it, which Clint vaguely recognized as bad news and bloodshed. It looked suspiciously familiar, like the ones he had been given for some time now. Like the one, beginning with the Russian Mobster hit. He lifted his head and looked at the man in front of him. A suit. A senior agent in charge. A handler.

His boss.

How could he’ve missed that?

That he was being recruited?

This SHIELD must be a very interesting organization, if that’s an approach Coulson was allowed to choose. He must’ve made quite a face, when the whole situation had finally hit him, because Phil raised his eyebrows at him, eyes gleaming with delight, lips quirked over the whiskey. He made a little toast gesture, tossed his drink, hummed over the taste of liquor, took his breath and spoke directly to Clint, for the first time ever.

“Talk to me, Barton.”

  
The End.


End file.
